Then thrusting the document into his rough doublet, he caught the old woman by the wrist.
“No, no,” she shrieked in agony, all her defiance gone, as she found herself face to face with the horrible reality. “No, no, I will not go.”
“Come, thou must, Mother Goodhugh,” said the constable; “and I warn thee that if thou begin’st any cursing against me and my men it will be the worse for thee.”
“I will not go; I am innocent, Sir Thomas. Pray, Sir Thomas, don’t let him. A poor weak widow woman. Pray, pray don’t.”
“An anointed witch thou art,” said the justice, pompously. “Away with her.”
“Nay, nay, Sir Thomas,” cried the founder. “She is no witch; only a silly, half-mad creature.”
“Yes, that he right,” cried Mother Goodhugh, clinging frantically to one of the doorposts, “mad—mad with trouble, good Sir Thomas.”
“Nay, woman, thy witchcrafts have stunk in my nostrils this many a day, and there is a long list of crimes for thee to expiate at the stake.”
“Shame, Sir Thomas!” cried the founder, indignantly; “if any one has cause against her it is I.”
“Yes, yes, good Sir Thomas, hear him. I have cursed him more than any. Oh, pray, pray.”